


Time yet for a hundred indecisions

by jessclare



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, if coffee-flavoured candy floss was a literary genre this would be it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2019-01-19 21:52:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12418941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessclare/pseuds/jessclare
Summary: Hathaway couldn’t pinpoint the moment his boss’ flat had become his second home, nor could he pinpoint the moment he’d realised he was in love with the aforementioned boss – a steady, matter-of-fact kind of love, as if they’d already exchanged rings and vows decades ago.There's breakfast and kissing.





	Time yet for a hundred indecisions

**Author's Note:**

> Haven’t written, let alone published fanfic in years but I started rewatching Lewis and these two are just the absolute w o r s t and so I had to write something. Feedback would be much appreciated x

As far as Hathaway was concerned, it was a morning like any other morning. He’d woken up early, been unable to go back to sleep, and so had driven over to Lewis’, figured he could go over some files and get a second opinion on a theory of his before heading to the station. He wasn’t entirely sure how many Sergeants habitually visited their boss before work, making coffee and stealing slices of toast, but for them it had become routine, a normal part of how they worked together. And he didn’t feel too bad about all the toast and coffee he’d inhaled at the DI’s – he made sure to contribute, buying packs of higher-quality coffee than what Lewis would have bothered with and sneaking them into the cupboard. No one deserves to start of their morning with a watery cup of Everyday Value instant coffee.

“I’m just going for a quick shower, be back in a minute”, Lewis wandered into the kitchen and back out, clutching a towel, barely looking at Hathaway who walked over to the counter, started fiddling with the coffeemaker. His fingers found the right things in the right cupboards even though his eyes were on his phone on the counter, half-heartedly scanning through the less than urgent emails cluttering his inbox.

“Mm. Eggs?”

“Sorry!” Came the reply from the hallway. “Forgot. There’s toast, though.” The bathroom door closed with a click.

“How many times”, Hathaway said, half out loud. “Plain toast doesn’t constitute a healthy, balanced breakfast.” Not that coffee and cigarettes did either, but it wasn’t like he didn’t nag about it to himself regularly enough. He poured two glasses of orange juice and carried them over to the dining table, sitting down to leaf through the files he’d brought with him.

The coffee was ready and Hathaway was leaning against the counter nibbling on a piece of toast by the time Lewis re-entered the kitchen, buttoning up his shirt. The lingering scent of shampoo blended with the smell of coffee and toasted bread when Lewis reached past Hathaway to pour himself a cup and grab the slice of bread waiting in the toaster. They made their way to the kitchen table side by side, a choreography they had perfected over countless mornings. Hathaway was embarrassed to admit – and so he hadn’t, not even fully to himself – that this was probably the most domestic his life had ever been. Hot coffee, sleepy silences, Oxford waking up around them. Lewis didn’t seem to think it was anything extraordinary, and why would he – he’d had this before, other Sergeants, kids, a wife even. Two lives tangling together, fitting side by side and suddenly making perfect sense like pieces in a puzzle. (What a dull metaphor for something that had altered his entire world. He’d never fitted anywhere before.)

Lewis took a sip of orange juice, turning one of the files around and glancing at it. “Well, what d’you think?”

“I think we need more time.”

“Chief Super’s not going to be best pleased with that.”

Hathaway tapped the rim of his coffee mug. “The Jones lead’s a good one though, if we rush this now the whole thing could come crashing down. In court, latest.”

Lewis lifted his gaze from the papers. Blue eyes. Shrug. “I’ll talk to her.”

“And the search warrant –“

“Aye. That shouldn’t be too hard to arrange.”

Hathaway smiled. “More toast?”

“Nah, thanks. Coffee?”

“I’ll get it.”

“Decent service, here.”

“I’m expecting a generous tip.” Hathaway topped up their coffee mugs, walked over to the sink and rinsed the pot. “You’re almost out of dish soap.”

Lewis got to his feet, piling their plates and empty glasses on the counter. He brought over their coffees and they stood, facing each other, Hathaway with his lower back resting against the countertop, Lewis leaning on the fridge. More talk about the current case: they had some perfectly capable DC’s working alongside them, decent enough resources, but something had yet to click, something didn’t feel quite right.

Unlike here. Hathaway couldn’t pinpoint the moment his boss’ flat had become his second home, nor could he pinpoint the moment he’d realised he was in love with the aforementioned boss – a steady, matter-of-fact kind of love, as if they’d already exchanged rings and vows decades ago. But that was how things were, now, and his life in its current state, the everyday routine of it, felt _right_ : comforting, familiar. Of course, there had been no rings, no vows, and never would be, so maybe the whole thing should have felt a little more wrong. Maybe the coffee, the toast, the secretly-in-love-with-your-boss would come to a disastrous end some day, but for now: toast, coffee, Lewis looking at him with his head tilted to the side. Warm sunlight streaming into the room.

“You alright?”

Hathaway blinked and took a sip out of his mug, only to find it empty. “Yeah. Just – stayed up late with that book you so generously delegated to me. I know _everything_ there is to know about rare insects in the Arctic Circle now. Fascinating stuff.”

“I thought it’d be right up your alley.” The corners of the older man’s mouth curled upwards but his eyes lingered on Hathaway’s face. “Anyway, time to get going, I think. You can tell me all about those insects on the way, maybe even pay the Professor a visit later.”

Lewis crossed over to the sink, taking the mug from Hathaway. Their fingers brushed, as the fingers of people who work closely together sometimes do. Lewis’ hand was warm, there was a slightly rough texture to his skin. Hathaway wanted to stroke his fingers across that skin, hold that hand in his own, feel all the similarities and differences between them. Not that he didn’t have pretty much all of it mapped out by now, not that he hadn’t had plenty of opportunities considering their non-existent boundaries of personal space – but he would have liked to have more time. Being close to Lewis was such a paradox: it felt comfortable, like home, bumping shoulders while walking, hands, legs touching while crouching over case files, yet at the same time it filled him with absolute terror, fear of what would happen if Lewis found out that there was much more to it for him than just professional eagerness to learn from the brilliant Inspector so that he might one day fill those shoes. Sometimes he thought Lewis must already know. Other times, he thought of resigning and returning to university, disappearing so Lewis would never find out. Running away had worked before, temporarily. Had brought him here, with this kind, brave, fiercely intelligent man whose dry wit complemented Hathaway’s own perfectly, whose warm, strong hand would fit into his own like they were meant to be together…

And maybe it was because he let himself get lost in a daydream about holding hands with his boss – pathetic really: if you’re going to fantasise about your colleagues couldn’t it at least be something a bit more risqué, more worthy of the potential disaster that would follow if the colleague in question ever found out – or maybe it was Lewis, it was difficult to say, but somehow their usually flawless routine of weaving past each other, the careful yet effortless balance between friendly closeness and professional politeness, failed, and they found themselves moving at the exact same moment, standing by the sink, too close, arms brushing, neither of them able to move past in the smooth, careless way they were used to. Stuck, somehow, the kitchen feeling suddenly very, very small. The world grinding to a halt. Breath catching in Hathaway’s throat. Silence.

And maybe it was because he wasn’t breathing, but it took a long moment for Hathaway to realise that Lewis’ hand hadn’t just brushed his arm, it was still there, not really gripping him, just sort of resting near his elbow. (How do you define a ‘brush’, how long can that last before you have to call it something else?)

They stared at each other. There were some sounds from the street outside, must have been, but the only things that really registered were Lewis’ breathing (steady), a slow drip of water from the tap (possibly into one of the mugs Lewis had placed in the sink, it sounded like the water was slowly building up, the drip-drip turning into more of a slosh-slosh), Hathaway’s own breathing (far from steady, he’d missed a few breaths and felt lightheaded, wondering whether he was choking on a breadcrumb, or maybe years of smoking was finally doing what the cigarette packs always said it would – killing him). Lewis swallowed. Heartbeat.

And, encouraged perhaps by the warmth spreading through his shirt into his arm from Lewis’ hand – the texture and temperature of which Hathaway had pondered on mere seconds earlier – Hathaway lifted his other arm, letting his fingers fall, lightly, carefully, on the DI’s side, where the shirt met the waistband of the trousers. He noticed, vaguely, that his heart seemed to have relocated to his throat, where it raced like it was determined to make the most of the final minutes before an inevitable heart attack. He noticed, too, the smell of aftershave – not his own but just as familiar. Lewis’ hand slid up his arm. The Inspector opened his mouth, as if to say something, but instead his (warm, slightly rough) hand continued up to Hathaway’s shoulder, the back of his neck, pulling him closer, and Hathaway closed his eyes and gave up his feeble attempts to breathe when their lips brushed, suddenly surrounded by so much warmth, physical proximity, shock, surprise. Lewis’ kissing seemed a laughably perfect reflection of his personality: soft, gentle, yet quietly confident in his skills, the top two of which apparently included murder-solving and post-breakfast snogging in the kitchen. Hathaway could have fainted. Instead, he lifted a barely functioning hand to the other man’s shirt-clad chest and pulled back slightly, so he could look his (mildly flushed) boss in the eyes.

Lewis opened his mouth again, and spoke, this time.

“I’m sorry, I –“

Hathaway, figuring that the sentence would probably end with “ _don’t know what came over me, forget this ever happened_ ” and since everything was ruined now anyway, decided he might as well and leaned in to kiss his boss again. Lewis’ mouth didn’t taste of the inevitable regret of the words he’d been about to speak. He just tasted of coffee and toast and sunshine. This was, one hundred percent and without any trace of doubt, entirely worth having to quit one’s job and leave Oxford forever. Hathaway could almost feel his heart breaking, as if the body part was physically wrenching itself into tiny, sharp-edged pieces.

They pulled apart again, staring at each other, their breathing very much unsteady on both sides now.

“I love you.” The words came out a bit choked, any trace of his usual eloquence gone, but Lewis seemed to get the general gist. Hathaway’s fingers found the collar of the other man’s shirt, running along the seam.

Lewis’ hands mirrored the movement, hands touching the carefully tailored fabric, not skin anymore. “I – Are you sure about this? I’m your boss, after all, and, well, _old_ ,” he paused, glanced down, back up to Hathaway’s eyes, “old enough to be your dad, probably.”

A feeling rose in Hathaway’s chest, a muddle of heartbreak, hope, and love, love for this stupid, stubborn man, who read murder suspects like they were books aimed at primary school children but was somehow failing to understand the desperate desire written – fairly obviously, he’d have thought – all over Hathaway’s face.

“Yes”, he breathed, lifting both hands to the sides of Lewis’ face, fingertips brushing soft hair still slightly damp from the shower. “ _Yes_. I’m sure. And you don’t have to –”

“I want to. Only, I’ll have to turn myself in. Workplace harassment and all that. Innocent will lose her mind. I haven’t exactly been a stickler to the rules before but this…” Lewis shook his head, running his thumbs along Hathaway’s shoulders. Their eyes met. A smile flickered at the corners of Lewis’ mouth.

The kitchen seemed to return to its normal size. Hathaway could hear a lorry outside. Heart attack ceased to seem like an immediate threat to his wellbeing – and if heartbreak was on its way, in this exact moment he didn’t really care. He grinned.

“I promise I won’t press charges, sir.”

Lewis chuckled, still looking a bit dazed, and Hathaway pulled him into his arms, so that their whole bodies were pressed together, kissing him deeply, sloppily, smilingly. Lewis took a step forward and Hathaway felt his back press against the fridge, the handle on the door digging into his back. Getting ideas way above his station, he bit Lewis’ lower lip and the other man let out a small moan, so low that Hathaway felt it all the way in the pit of his stomach. He tried to pull Lewis even closer, wanted to bury himself in the man, didn’t care if he lost himself completely, indelibly. His heart already belonged to Lewis, whether the other man wanted it or not, and his body, too, seemed to respond primarily to Lewis’ commands now, willing and pliable in those strong, experienced hands.

Lewis pulled back, out of breath. His hair was ruffled, and Hathaway thought, full of lightheaded amazement, that it wasn’t because a sudden gust of wind, or because a violent criminal had attacked him, or because he’d stayed up all night, haunted by an unsolved, gory murder. He, Hathaway, had done it. He’d run his hands through Detective Inspector Lewis’ hair while snogging him breathless, and Detective Inspector Lewis had let him.

The Detective Inspector in question reached up to place one more kiss in the corner of Hathaway’s mouth and somehow the affection, the gentleness of that gesture put fainting and heart attack (or both, simultaneously) right back on the menu. His hand found Lewis’ and he took it, tentatively, running his thumb across the palm, fingers tangling together. Lewis looked at their hands, running his other hand through Hathaway’s hair. Hathaway closed his eyes for a moment, leaning into the touch.

“I love you too, James. ‘Course I do. Wasn’t sure if it was ever going to lead to this –” a soft squeeze of Hathaway’s hand, “But I’m glad it did. Just…” Hathaway frowned at the hesitation in Lewis’ voice, the sudden gravity of his face. “Just, I don’t want you doing this just because I’m your boss, or because, well, any reason other than that you want to.”

Hathaway opened his mouth, licked his lips and frowned again. “Are you serious?”

He could have sworn Lewis actually rolled his eyes. “Yes, I am. Does this seem to you like a situation where I’d be joking?”

Hathaway let go of Lewis’ hand, wrapping his arms around the other man’s waist and pulling their hips together. “And does _this_ seem to you like a situation where _I don’t want to_?” His voice was rough with nerves, frustration and barely contained desire. He felt Lewis shiver under his hands.

“But you’re so young, and – and you’re gorgeous, and your brain’s like that website Wikipedia, only more reliable. And I’m old, and your boss, and this is exactly like those seventies sexual harassment videos we’re made to watch, the ones that always make me think oh, that wouldn’t ever be me. ‘Cept now it is.”

Hathaway sighed and loosened his grip of Lewis, instead taking the older man’s hand in his and holding it between them. Out of all the possible scenarios he’d imagined would follow from Lewis finding out how he felt, this wasn’t one of them. The tiniest, hopeful glimmer of a thought in the back of his mind suggested that Lewis was being overly cautious because he cared, because he wanted to get this right, because he wanted to build on whatever had happened in this kitchen this morning. What a wild, unexpected concept.

“I’ve wanted to do this,” he held Lewis’ hand in both of his, stroking the knuckles with his thumb, “for about a year. Your hands are always warm, when you’ve touched me, and I –“ He took a deep breath, knowing that Lewis was either going to stay or go, and since he had no idea which option the scales were currently tipped towards, he might as well embarrass himself now since it probably wouldn’t matter once they left this coffee-scented, sunlight-drenched magical land of a kitchen. “I’ve wondered what it would be like, to be able to hold your hand. And, full disclosure, I’ve wondered about other things too, so if you think this is something you’re springing on me, out of the blue, please believe me when I say it’s been thoroughly premeditated on my side. Sir.”

Lewis huffed. “Could’ve _said_ something, silly lad.” And Hathaway thought he recognised that look: the exasperated smile, usually presenting itself when he quoted obscure poems, fixated on a line of investigation he’d been told to leave alone, or spoke Latin. He supposed Lewis wasn’t the only one who’d done a bad job detecting certain signs. And if those looks of fond exasperation were something that might have led to soft kisses and strong arms wrapped around him, like it did now, he did wish he’d said something sooner. Despite his long history with exegesis, he doubted he’d ever come this close to understanding the true nature of Paradise.

In this particular version of Eden, the serpent made its inevitable appearance in the form of Lewis’ mobile phone. It buzzed demandingly against the lacquered wood of the dining table, luring Lewis away, leaving Hathaway leaning against the refrigerator. His head swimming.

“We’re late for work.” Lewis dismissed the call, slipping the phone into his pocket. Silence gathered between them like thick, wet fog. Was this the moment where Lewis took a good hard look at the decisions of the past half an hour and concluded it was time to back the hell out? Would this be the day Hathaway handed in his notice after all? He managed to walk up to the dining table and shrug on his suit jacket. _Right. Work._ He reached for the files scattered across the table but before he could pick them up, Lewis’ hand had closed around his own. He made himself meet those blue eyes.

“Dinner, here, after?” The corners of the Inspector’s eyes wrinkled slightly. “You’ll have all the time in the world to find out what it’s like to hold my hand.”

Hathaway felt himself blush. Rule number one of working with Detective Inspector Lewis: never give him anything to tease you about. He nodded.

They gathered their things: files, keys, wallet. A morning like any other morning. Their hands brushing as they headed to the door side by side, as the hands of people who work closely together sometimes do. Hathaway allowed his fingers to intertwine with Lewis’ briefly before they stepped out into the street.

There’d be more time later.


End file.
